


We Were Made

by vylit



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Football, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-12
Updated: 2006-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vylit/pseuds/vylit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon and John share stories, scars, and football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Made

John likes sex. Slow sex with skin sliding against skin, backs arching, slow and luxurious and warm like a day in the sun. John likes hard sex. Up against the wall, teeth biting down, rough friction, and hips moving hard enough to bruise delicate skin.

John likes sex in all its forms, but he's never had sex with anyone the way he has it with Ronon.

Ronon has hard, calloused hands and he wants it everywhere, anywhere, but it's the way he looks at John, the way he touches John's chest that makes it different. John's never had that before, doesn't know what to do with it.

He likes Ronon's hard cock and Ronon's rough voice. He likes the way Ronon's hair feels in his hands, the way Ronon will take John's cock in his mouth. Ronon doesn't blink, but stares at him, eyes dark, watching while John feels himself breaking apart.

And John should tell Ronon that he's no one's safe harbor, no one's hero, but then Ronon will rub against him and smile and say, “Want to go run?” and John thinks it can wait for another time.

* * *

It's after their mission to PTS-856 that John shows Ronon his Hail Mary tape.

The first time he watched it on Atlantis was with Teyla, Ford, and Rodney, and Ford made fun of his team, and Teyla gave him an “I'm humoring you” grin, and Rodney spent most of his time stealing the popcorn and mock-bitching about how uncomfortable his seat was. 

It's still one of John's favorite memories.

This isn't anything like that.

They're in John's room, and Ronon has his shirt off, and he's watching it with the same kind of intensity he gives to weapons and blow jobs and John. He sits quiet and still and tells John he talks too much when John tries to describe why the plays are important.

“This is like a game we had on Sateda,” Ronon says when the screen goes dark, and he goes on to point out the particularly good plays and the best players, and when John pushes on his shoulders, Ronon goes back, his body moving to accommodate John as if they've been doing this for years.

And then it's John telling him to be quiet. It's John who pushes down Ronon's pants and lines them up, sliding his aching cock against Ronon's until they're both hot and moaning, white sparks running along John's spine.

It's easy and hot and when John comes he's biting down on Ronon's shoulder, and he can hear Ronon saying his name, dark and rolling, and it doesn't sound the same from anyone else.

Still, he's surprised when Ronon wakes him up two weeks later and John flies them to the mainland where Lorne and Michaels and a group of other marines are throwing around something that looks like a football.

“I thought you'd like to play.”

* * *

No one knows, not officially, not even here on Atlantis, but Cadman raises an eyebrow and smiles at them after they finish one of their afternoon runs that ends with them having sex on the catwalk, and Teyla lays a hand on his arm one morning, her grin small and knowing.

“Ronon has fit in well,” she says, and John catches the smell of incense, spicy and sweet, when she leans her head toward him. “You are happy.”

It's not a question, and John finds himself nodding his head as he watches Ronon across the room, loading up a tray with enough food to feed a small army and nudging Rodney's arm out of the way so he can grab the last roll. 

John has had friends and lovers, but it's never been the way it is here on Atlantis, everything fitting together like lost pieces of a puzzle; it wasn't until Atlantis that he realized some were missing. 

So John gives her his slow smile, that she returns like daybreak before Rodney interrupts, his voice strident and irritated. “If I end up going into hypoglycemic shock, you can both tell Carson who was responsible!”

Ronon looks pointedly at Rodney's plate, which is loaded with eggs, a bacon-like substance they brought back from XYF-213, the oatmeal from Daedalus' last trip, and fruit from the mainland, before taking the seat across from John. “You won't starve.”

* * *

Ronon has scars. Long ones on his thighs that John likes to lick and bite, jagged ones a few inches above his cock that John's fingers map out in the dark, and thick, serrated ones on his back that John stares at when he's fucking Ronon, when Ronon is sleeping, long arms and legs spread over John's bed.

Those were the first John saw, and they're the only ones that Ronon doesn't talk about.

The others have stories. They were made during missions and bar fights and childhood accidents that Ronon tells John about over Agretvian beer, his voice louder and overlaid with laughter after a few drinks.

John's scars are mistakes. They are lined with downed helicopters and enemy fire, the death of friends and the taint of Wraith. John's scars are failures, carved into his skin like a reminder, so John doesn't tell their stories. 

Instead, he tells Ronon about Walker and Stevens' karaoke nights, about Mitch and Dex and the drunken bets they made on sports they didn't even watch, about Ford and the one time he'd helped John glue Rodney's stuff down to his desk. 

At the end of the night, John goes back to his room and sucks Ronon off against the door, fucks until he's sweaty and boneless, and falls asleep with his right hand over the scars on Ronon's back.

 

end.


End file.
